


This Might Take Us A While

by AlluringMary



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Choking, Dominance, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Lore is a good person I guess?, M/M, Mirror Universe, Other, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Subdrop, Submission, Under-negotiated Kink, he has feelings, if at all, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:42:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: In the mirror universe, no matter how O'brien seeks to free you Terrans and pacify the Alpha quadrant, you'll never buy into his delusions of freedom. If it weren't for the psychopatic android travelling alongside you, you'd be well on your way to the Badlands by now.Takes place in DS9 mirror universe, Lore is up and running with a deep affection for the humans, but that affection rests on one in particular.
Relationships: Lore (Star Trek)/Reader, Lore/Reader, Martok/Reader (Implied-Past)
Kudos: 23





	This Might Take Us A While

**Author's Note:**

> I have a crush on the murderous, organic-hating Lore--it seemed, at the time, like a good idea to know how he might have turned out in the other dimension. Turns out it's mainly porn, humiliation and some deep-seated issues on both sides.

The comm's beeping, insistently. You can see the flash of color from your seat further away from the ship's console. Although seat would be a poor way to describe your precarious position, restrained hands behind your back, a long and unnaturally straight cut down the middle of your shirt. Each breath threatens to expose more of yourself and he makes no intention of warming his skin clear, each stroke of his fingers feels like ice cubes being dragged upon your skin. Never mind your being used to his eccentricities, there's no helping the shudders that roll of your frame when he applies the slightest pressure upon the phaser's healing burns, the mellowing bruises proof of your time as a prisoner aboard a ship broken off from the original resistance.

“You should go get that.” It's a wonder you're not gagged yet, a thing he's already regretting judging by his stillness, so rigid and precise, one that can only be achieved by androids such as him. “With our luck it'll turn out to be those same bastards again.”

Golden eyes slide over you, a firm hand snapping up to seize your throat. “Don't speak.” His attention is diverted towards the obnoxious hail that seems so far away from where you're pushed into the seat. “Stay put.”

“Like I have a choice.” You swallow your snark at the very real glare he throws your way while he marches back to the panel. The restraints you bear on your wrists and elbows are impossible to loosen, each unfruitful tug comes with a delightful sense of helplessness. Of course the thin yet strong straps are of his own making, the bindings sink seamlessly into the other, rendering any contortions futile. It doesn't mean you don't abuse them when you rub your thighs together, letting desire take over reason when your nipples graze against the remnants of your shirt.

Each and every bouts of pleasure in your reach before he comes back you take for it's guaranteed he'll make you pay dearly for everything.

“Uncompromising, savage and single-minded.” Lore uses as a greeting when he stomps back towards your bound form. “The very flower of humanity. If you're so keen on broadcasting the traits of your vile race, there's no reason I shouldn't return you to your kind, yes?”

Still unheated, frigid fingers crawl in between your pants and navel. The pressure he exercises on the fabric threatens to rip it off completely. “That may be the only pair I have l--” You're cut off by the thunderous noise of fabric torn apart, the sheer volume startling you. It rang like a 20th century Terran gun, sure and deadly. Yet it was impossible to stave off your blooming arousal at his inhumane strength, the way it exposed you further to his eyes.

Nonetheless the movement pulled you to the end of the couch, making it easier for him to slip any remaining bits of clothing. During his efforts, he said vehemently, “I ordered you to stay silent.” His attention snapped back to the two halves of your open shirt, also stripping those away. Finally naked save from the bindings behind your back, when you most expect him to get on with the torture, he traces with warm fingertips the discolorations covering your chest.

You bite your tongue, admiring with a sense of wonder the human-like care that slips into his eyes when he examines the wounds and scars. Believe it or not, the separate cell you'd encountered is not kind to its prisoners, even less to an original dissident.

One who happens to run with Lore, no less.

_“We know who you are, one of the former comfort slaves from Q'onoS... The last news we heard was that Martok was still calling for his escaped property's capture and execution. However I am certain we can come to an agreement without resorting to violence, after all we both vie for a common goal.”_

“You're suicidal.” The Android bluntly states, a dark frown pulling his lips taut. “To even think you could reach the Kelab system without them picking you up on their sensors--” His fingers sink into a healing burn from your bout in the dreaded Booth, an antique your fellow Terrans had gleefully activated j _ust for you. It was hard to come by but I've had our engineer work day and night to repair it--if you'd just talk to me._ The sudden pain tears an agonized cry from you, very much so diverting from your growing desire. “You're suicidal.”

Weak, soft whimpers escape you. Memories from the torture aboard the T'Kumbra are the last things you want to relive right now. “Lore--”

He laughs and the muscles of his face jump, “You just never listen!” His hand flexes in your hair, bringing forth a rush of tears to your eyes when he pulls at it so you can stand tall. “You can't even follow the simplest of commands!” Lore's breathing is fake, an ingenious way of cooling his interior circuit systems yet it seems to grow quicker and shorter as his anger rises. “A simple cargo exchange and you need--” His free hand clasps the back of your nape, tugging at your hair so you lay defenseless. “--to make yourself a target. Did you enjoy it? Back with your Terran bastards? Is it all you ever want, being at the mercy of those savages?”

Wrists still strapped to your elbows, you put no considerable fight when he forced you to your knees, not acknowledging when your knees crashed to the ground. You winced as hot, searing pain climbed up your thighs, but looked up at him still. A deft hand, quicker than your eye could track worked to free himself from the confines of his clothes.

“Well I know just the way to keep Terran whores satiated... and quiet.”

His tan pants slid down to his knees, revealing another expense of pale white artificial skin. Your eyes snapped to his cock which began to fill, operating on a put-upon program tailored to fit such a situation. You felt a blush dust your cheeks, eager for the weight if his member to rest on your tongue. Lore's fingers burrow deeper into your hair in an effort to make you part your lips. The smooth feel of synthetic skin is all but negated by the considerable pressure against your lips.

“What was I even thinking?” You try to refrain from yelping when he cruelly pulls your hair but never mind that weak effort--he slides in easily, unhurt by your teeth and unstimulated by your retching around him. “Everyone knows what sluts Terrans are for Cardy ridges... Is that it? You wanted to get caught by that blasted Alliance?”

If it weren't for your god awful retching and watering eyes, you'd bite back...but as it is you can barely make out the artificial paleness of his navel through your tears, or focus on anything more than your aborted breaths around his cock. Exhales caught in your throat make you feel lightheaded, a dull throbbing inside your head almost taking you away from the straining of your muscles. You vainly fight against the bonds, uselessly squirming on the floor while the focus of your sight grows dimmer by the second. When the light seeps out, your lungs collapse on themselves and your head aches--when you think he won't let go, your head gets pulled back, and you splutter through snot and tears, desperate to take deep intakes of air before a punishing hand forces you back in place.

It's grotesque and vile, from the wet sounds you make to the act itself and this twisted part of your pathetic nature is delighted. Talk about Terran whores. You love this, of course you'd love this; being degraded by someone outside of your own race, organic or synthetic.

But-- _“You appear smart,” The Vulcan captain offered, “I have a certain affinity for Terrans--only a few of my people could have withstood Klingon masters but your people are known for enduring after all.” Slowly, his strangely clear--hybrid?--eyes slid down onto you, “This is why I know the method of torture my officers exert upon you is illogical, a Terran who survived slavery on Q'onoS won't be so easily broken and we have little time. I will spare you any more of this pointless exercise if you'll only tell us where Dr Noonien Soong's creation is.”_

Your head's jerked back violently, tearing with it the remnants of the interrogation. You wonder briefly while Lore thrusts you back into the seat if the tears running down your face all come from his rough treatment and his alone.

You collapse against the battered thinned material, focusing on your breathing. You cough dumbly around the spit stuck in your throat, fervently trying to blink away the pestering tears in your eyes. It's the natural order of things, the non-malleable result of the action of one man hundred of years ago who upon touching the stars and being greeted by Solkar of Vulcan drew his weapon and sealed his race's fate.

“...You're crying.”

And what of the Terran Empire, weakened by the presence of one man--a facsimile from a perfect universe. All because of some miserable, misguided bond between his other self and a treacherous Vulcan-- No, this was the punishment. Years of peace and demilitarization you had never known traded for decades of slavery. Didn't you deserve it as a whole, the brutality of your master reeking of targ after the wild hunt, the scratch of hardened skin dragging across yours--this was deserved, the price an arrogant, mindless, belligerent people must pay after--

“Answer me.”

O'brien didn't matter, you knew it. The children of his children would suffer, know all but sorrow. Thus was the path humanity walked--restoration and destruction. This was justice you knew, justice.

The ache in your shoulders cleared, your arms dropped to your sides limply. The urge to cover yourself instantly hampered by the strong hands clamping down onto your arms.

That was it, then, you'd doomed yourself to become a peaceful people? That can't happen, not in this reality, it's impossible. The second Terok Nor became the home of the dissidents, the second you ex-slaves opted for peaceful action you had condemned your descendants--once the dust had settled and Earth was thought free, they would live through the brunt of the new wave of fighting, of slavery, of a race once submissive to their parents tower over them.

_“I was wrong then, it would appear that you didn't survive Martok after all.” The discolorations were bad enough but the pain resounding behind them, deep into the skin drove you mad. The smell was wrong, there was no bite of putrid sweat, coagulating blood, the stench of the mated fur of a fresh kill. It wasn't Klingon, there was only the faint scent of dust, of a Vulcan from a planet he'd never seen. “I apologize, I should have known Terrans had grown accustomed to being masters. It's only natural for one such like you to break under your betters.”_

“You should have told me.” Lore scolds as he so usually does. The android's emotions are shot to hell, you know--some processors hastily assembled. As a result he deals in anger and thrives when getting a rise out of people, the worry that laces his voice still doesn't surprise you. It's appallingly obvious he abhors feelings for you, no matter how much he likes to taunt and humiliate those around him. It's a pity the other can't read him as well as you.

“You knew I'd been tortured.” You say lowly in the tan fabric of his shirt.

“I didn't know they had taken it this far.” I didn't know they'd broken you.

“They weren't Cardassians.” You throat's hurting, your voice wavers. “Could have been worse.”

“Solok's an animal, I should have suspected that he would resort to this.” His shoulder turn towards the main console of the runabout. It must take him less than a microsecond to realize a brazen return to the T'Kumbra and an exchange of phaser fire would only make matters worse. “I should have destroyed them.”

“And you'd have taken me down along with them.” Painstakingly, you steady your breathing. There's one person that cares, in this bitter quadrant, about your fate, the same person who'd smuggled you off the Klingon homeworld while you still had a branded face like cattle, and never met the eyes of anyone. Somehow, a bastard android without a proper emotional range had looked upon that face and not seen a slave who'd been told since the day they could crawl that they'd end up as bleached bones, something to serve and die, nothing to be known or remembered.

He doesn't answer, concentrates instead of bringing more warmth to his chest. The heat feels nice against your cheek. “We'll reach the rendez-vous point in three hours. You should rest for now.”

For all his unnatural, dismissive strength, he stays diligently put when you don't let go of his clothes. “Or we can stay like this a little longer.” Lore corrects himself, effortlessly balancing you on his knees.

The memories are far from fading, they hurt still. Somehow sensing your agony, Lore proceeds with caution and asks, “Are you alright?”

You're not sure how to answer that, and for now you stay in his embrace and confess into his chest, “I don't know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse.


End file.
